


Rules of Engagement

by SupposedToBeWriting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: About Six Months After S5, Fluff, Humor, Imagining of post S5, M/M, Recovery, Romance, Slice of Life, some ep 160 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting
Summary: An examination of one afternoon of Jon's life, six months after everything ended. Coping is messy, vague, and difficult - but with his rules of engagement and the steadfast loyalty of his boyfriend, Jon is making progress. He's going to get some coffee, buy some books, and pick up some cake for Martin. Everything is going to be perfectly fine.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	Rules of Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Discussions of recovery from trauma

Jon fumbled with his earbuds in the doorway of their flat, only to wince when one of them struck against the floor. “Damn it,” he whispered, crouching down to pick it up. He polished it off on the side of his jacket ( _that’ll do)_ and pushed both into his ears. Jon hummed under his breath while searching for the appropriate track – it was a jazz sort of day, even if Martin relentlessly mocked him for liking a _few songs in jazz, Martin, this did not make him ‘a man that liked jazz’_ – and hit play.

Six months ago, Jonathan Sims had caused the end of the world. Also six months ago, Jonathan Sims had brought it back.

He stepped off the stairs that led up to their flat and started to walk down the crowded London street.

Listening to music in public was nearly vital these days. For one, it prevented strangers from coming up and trying to talk to him on the tube, in shops, just _walking._ That was the mundane reason. The other …

Jon had found, rather early on, that the loss of his Sight had been difficult to cope with. He would hear conversations on the street – tangential whispers of secrets and trauma – and would find himself drawn to it. On more than one occasion, he had followed people home with the hopes of discovering more. _More. What drives you? What do you want to hide? What don’t you want people to know about?_

Which, of course, was liable – probably rightly – to get him sent to prison one day. With the earbuds in, he couldn’t hear a word whispered by anyone. Safer. Jon figured that the compulsion to _KNOW_ would be less – well, compelling – these days, given that some time had passed, but he wasn’t really inclined to test that particular beast today.

It was one of the rules of engagement. Engaging, of course, with the trauma that always thudded against the back of his skull. The alto in the concerto of his life.

_Rule One: Wear earbuds in public, because it will be soul-crushing to know that you’re just as Hungry now as you were before._

Jonathan Sims’ first stop was one for coffee, and he was the bastard that refused to take out his earbuds to order. He’d become quite effective at lip-reading, as it happened, and wasn’t one to make small talk with the barista. Saxophone filled his ears while he waited with the rest of the caffeine addicts at the end of the line. Two men were speaking to another animatedly, and Jon quickly averted his eyes. As if to protect himself further, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked around the small coffeeshop.

Four pairs of eyes looking at him. No, five.

It had become sort of a game that he had unconsciously started to play. Jon knew how he looked, thin and scarred up. People rarely stared, but it was a quick flutter of eyes in his direction – looking him up and down – and then flitting away like a bird.

_Rule Two: Don’t make eye contact, that only encourages conversation._

He didn’t mind. He found that he didn’t relate to people much these days. Hell, he was practically a social butterfly back then as compared to what he was now. Too serious, too intense. The baristas always seemed surprised when he ordered a vanilla shot in his coffee, because didn’t men like him order a coffee black as his soul? Didn’t he look down on those who preferred any sort of sweetness in his life?

_Two, Revised: Don’t make eye contact, unless you’re staring directly into a barista’s soul as you pour an unconscionable amount of sugar and milk into your coffee._

Jon sipped at his drink, warmed, when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He waited until he had escaped the dim coffeeshop and rejoined London at large before he fished it out.

_Martin Blackwood: you can’t just win an argument by leaving yk_

_Martin Blackwood: all im saying is (and obv it doesn’t matter to me, I’m just correcting slander) that if the three qualifications for being a bear are being big hairy and gay im technically a bear and you can’t convince me otherwise_

_Martin Blackwood: 🐻🐻🐻_

The warmth of the coffee struck him the precise moment he felt his heart overflow with love.

It would be unhealthy, of course, to pin all of his recovery onto one Martin K Blackwood, and also inaccurate. But good lord, Jon certainly wouldn’t be where he was without his boyfriend, would he?

Jon found it hard to describe, because he didn’t _talk_ about what happened much. Certainly not as much as he ought to. Certainly not as much as it would be required to start to move past it. But there were times, when he was in the thick of it, where he could look at Martin and know that Martin understood. Martin hadn’t been through everything with him, but he’d been through the worst parts.

There were days at a time where he almost pretended it never happened, simply because he didn’t have the energy to deal with it. Jon didn’t think it would require energy to feel active pain, but there it was.

There were days at a time where he almost pretended it never happened, simply because he didn’t _want_ to deal with it.

Both of those types of days felt like filler for the days that really felt like they _mattered_ in the grand scheme of things _._ Where Jon would be running the vacuum and suddenly he’d recall Gerard Keay smiling at him even though it made blood run down from the scars in his face, or he’d feel the weight of Martin pressing against him as he muttered _sorry-sorry-sorry-i’m-so-goddamn-sorry_ while the metal of the corkscrew entered his skin or he’d smell the clean plastic packaging smell that hadn’t left his nostrils whenever Nikola looked at him, and everything would come tumbling down onto him.

Jon didn’t know if those days were breakthrough days or just his past popping up to say that it wasn’t done with him yet. God, he couldn’t say if those days were even _good_ for him or not. They caused pain, but that didn’t mean anything.

And Martin could sweep in (if he was there, if he was aware) and hug him and let him cry. While that made Jon _feel_ better, he didn’t think it changed him better.

Of course, the inverse happened, too, with Martin. Less loud sobbing, though, and mostly frozen with a transfixed gaze on the opposite wall. Martin would freeze him, withdraw, and Jon could only wrap his arms around him and let him get it out. Martin always cried so quietly.

Today wasn’t any of those types. At least, he didn’t think. It’d been a pleasant morning. Martin had gotten up, showered, and joined Jon in bed for another hour before they’d went and had breakfast. And, on some route or another, Martin had remarked that he was considered a bear in the LGBT community and Jon, apparently, had the _audacity_ to scoff at Martin (mostly, in retrospect, because he’d never paid much thought to that sort of thing and not inherently because he disagreed with Martin’s assertion).

_Three: Be grateful for the good days; they’re not always bad for you. Suffering isn’t always progress._

Jon looked down at his phone while he walked. Martin often teased him about his contact for his boyfriend in his phone, so formal – _Martin Blackwood._ He hadn’t changed it since he’d first gotten Martin’s number, finding no reason to. _His_ name in Martin’s phone, however, changed frequently.

Once, his name in Martin’s phone had been _SOL._ Jon spied it once and had sat on the question internally for a few hours, before asking Martin why on _Earth_ h _e_ had put ‘shit-outta-luck’ in as his contact name. Martin had been stupefied, looked down at his phone, and started to laugh. “Oh, Jon, no, it’s, uh, it’s sex-on-legs?”

Jon had snorted, gave Martin a loving shove, and said that shit-outta-luck was probably more accurate.

He was currently ‘Brainboy’.

_Brainboy: Aren’t bears meant to be more … ?_

_Martin Blackwood: what_

_Brainboy: It’s just that when you think of a bear, you think of them as more rugged and assertive. Isn’t that the stereotype?_

_Martin Blackwood: i can be rugged and assertive!_

_Brainboy: *adorable_

_Martin Blackwood: r you saying that bears can’t be adorable?_

While Jon walked down the street to his second destination – a used bookstore, his favorite in the area - he had put his phone back in his pocket. He nevertheless felt it buzz, and could only imagine what Martin was sending him after that.

In his more contemplative moods, Jon took stock of their relationship. _How They Were Doing,_ capitals included.

They’d both been practically catatonic after things had returned to rights for several weeks, speaking to one another like they were strangers. Still together though, if only because neither had the mental energy to even consider something otherwise. And Jon had started to worry. They’d managed to slap a label on their relationship that worked well enough during the apocalypse, but good lord, that had been a situation of war.

Some relationships couldn’t _work_ when things were calm, domestic, serene. And how much did he really know about Martin, really? He hadn’t known about Martin’s distaste for cilantro when they moved into this flat, because the shop down at the village hadn’t stocked cilantro, and that had been the only time they’d _really_ had to cook together. And now he knew all about Martin’s food preferences.

But … it had been six months, and Jon still couldn’t imagine being without him. They had to do things differently to other couples, of course. They didn’t go out much, certainly not indoor dates. Sometimes they’d walk through a park or go examine a garden or simply try to get somewhere that was _isolated_ from everything else. But even when Jon was having good days, days where Martin did not strictly _take care of him,_ he found with no surprise at all that he still loved Martin tenderly.

The bell rung on the door while Jon stepped into the bookshop. The poor place was always on the verge of closing, commonly running Internet campaigns to keep the lights on. Jon frequented this place the most out of all his favorite bookstores, but rarely saw anyone else inside. He dipped his head back in greeting to the cashier before disappearing between the stacks.

Of course Martin had changed after everything that had happened, but Jon had discovered with no real revelation that they still got on well. Spectacularly. Martin was funny. Martin was bright and optimistic and playful in his best times.

Sometimes Jon worried whether he liked _that_ or whether he liked how much he had improved from his worst times or whether there was even a bloody _difference,_ but overall – Jon had never been more comfortable with a human person by his side. He had once despised dating because the idea of someone in his _home,_ all the goddamn time, forcing him to socialize and communicate twenty-four/seven had been anathema.

Now, he couldn’t imagine living alone again. Martin gave him the space that he wanted. Some activities were still done alone. Some activities Jon hadn’t realized would be so much more enjoyable to do with a boyfriend around. Martin playfully hip-checking him while they were washing dishes was nice in an almost _juvenile way._

_Rule Four: Be in love with Martin Blackwood, even if explaining why is hard._

While Jon’s long fingers started to pick through the fictional novel offerings, he withdrew his phone with his other hand. Martin had sent him seven pictures of some _very_ cute bears – grizzly, polar, black, sun, panda.

_Martin Blackwood: will take ur apologies in form of lemon drizzle cake for teatime_

_Brainboy: I was going to stop at the baker’s on the way back, but it’s certainly not an apology._

_Martin Blackwood: !!!!! love you!!!!!_

_Brainboy: <3_

Jon had tried therapy, if only because that seemed like the sort of thing you were supposed to do in this situation. He had had a dozen so far. It wasn’t their fault; they were all perfectly decent people. Good qualifications. Jon had obsessively researched the first online before realizing that might’ve been part of the problem, and instead just glanced sparingly at reviews around the area.

The fact of the matter was that Jon was absolutely resolute in not sharing any details of his past with them. Some of them tried to crack Jon like a nut, some of them only gave vague suggestions for treatment, and some of them had point-blank told him that they couldn’t do much if Jon wouldn’t even _hint_ at his past.

But, lord, Jon wondered what he could say, really. They were all unanimous in their anxiety prognoses, though, and Jon had received an anti-anxiety medication that helped things along.

Martin had attended only one session; Jon had sat outside the entire time. He hadn’t been able to hear, but it’d been clear from Martin’s explanation afterwards of what had gone on that talking to a stranger about his feelings would be a non-starter.

But, on the other hand, Martin was generally more willing to discuss his feelings with Jon than Jon was with Martin. It was never done smoothly. _Always_ awkward, coming out of nowhere, making Jon wonder what was going through Martin’s head on a daily basis – but nevertheless, Martin would occasionally blurt out something he’d been thinking and they would have a talk about it. Those talks always made Jon feel like he’d been caught with his pants down, and he felt like he often waned into a melodramatic phony mess, but he tried to help Martin along in that regard. Most importantly, he felt, he emphasized that Martin did not always have to be so … _Martin_ all the time about everything. Admitting weakness and chatting about feelings was to be expected.

Jon pulled out a book and examined the front and back cover. Fantasy. _Deep_ fantasy, with one of those covers that could have been a painting in a museum somewhere. He still disliked reading anything that he felt like he had read before, and he had had some luck lately in finding new voices within rarely-touched genres. The novel was put underneath his arm.

_Rule Five: Don’t push Martin into revealing his feelings. He’s had too many things pulled from him already._

He switched to the romance section, his fingers sliding through the paperback novels all aligned on the shelf. Best to find something without a naked woman on it – or, even worse, some sort of animal placed front and center.

Neither of them had jobs. That would be something he would have to worry about years down the line. When things had gotten set back to rights and both had been released from the hospital, Jon had made some sort of mumbling half-remark that he could put a deposit down on a hotel for a few days while they found somewhere more permanent to live. _Saying_ that had felt incredibly surreal. Very official. Institutional. Jon couldn’t even have given a ballpark estimate of what was in his accounts.

Martin had jolted like someone had shocked him, and he’d taken Jon’s hand and said he had to tell him something.

At the time, they’d both been wearing hospital bracelets around their wrists. They both seemed like they were in a bit of a daze. Jon had been dead-set convinced that Martin was about to bluntly break things off and walk away from him, disappearing into the mist. The depth of Jon’s fear in that moment had been intense – more than he thought it would have been, given the situation. In that moment, he had been about ready to fall to pieces, get on his knees and beg Martin not to leave for at least a few days more because _damn it, he couldn’t, it’d been so much and he couldn’t._

That had not been the case.

While Martin had been working for Peter, he’d been in charge of nearly all the administrative duties. Sheepishly, Martin had admitted that he hadn’t been sure what Peter had actually done day-to-day. He had said Peter’s name cautiously, slowly, like he had thought that Jon had _forgotten_ the name of the first man he’d ever killed.

The point was – Martin had also had access to all the Magnus Institute’s financial accounts. And while Martin would not be standing as the most prolific embezzler in English history, he had probably cracked the top 50.

“Christ, I love you,” Jon had said for the first time since they’d left hospital. Not just because Martin had set them up financially, not just because Martin had rebelled against Peter in that way, but because – even then – Martin had still held some small hope for this sort of future. A future where those sort of funds might be needed.

Returning to the register of the bookstore, Jon placed both books on the counter. The cashier had grown used to Jon not taking the earbuds out of his ears, and only waved a friendly greeting as they set to check Jon out. Jon fished his phone out of his pocket again.

_Brainboy: So, darling, what am I?_

_Martin Blackwood: ??? deep_

_Brainboy: If you’re a bear. Am I twink? I know what a twink is._

_Martin Blackwood: OH MY GOD_

_Martin Blackwood: no jon you’re not a twink_

_Martin Blackwood: think you’re an otter technically_

Jon squinted his eyes at his phone, his glasses sliding down his nose. He hadn’t needed them during the end of the world. But the Eye – in all of its terrible and monstrous power – had decided to strike down Jon’s perfect 20/20 vision and give him astigmatism again, which seemed rather in poor taste.

(He didn’t make these sorts of jokes around Martin. He rarely made them to himself.)

The books were shifted into his messenger back, and Jon stuck out his card to pay for them. After adjusting the jazz track into something a little more alt-rock, Jon headed back out into the wide, wide world to make a beeline for the bakery.

_Brainboy: Now you’re just making these up._

_Martin Blackwood: an otter isn’t even archaic knowledge jon!!! it’s a common one! it’s not like a chickenhawk or a giraffe or something_

_Brainboy: You have these memorized?_

_Martin Blackwood: i did when i first came out and now they’re etched onto my brain forever I think_

_Brainboy: I feel the same way with Roman emperors._

_Martin Blackwood: u r dead to me, go back to oxford_

_Brainboy: Dominus illuminatio mea._

Jon didn’t have a plan for the future. Anything beyond ‘continuing to pay rent’ and ‘food in pantry’ seemed too nebulous. Having a _job?_ After everything that had happened? After everything that continued to plague him? The fear that it may not be over, and that he would wake up to find himself an inhuman monster again? That he would look at himself in the mirror and find the crown on his head again – the eyes – the KNOWING -

He stopped so suddenly on the sidewalk that someone bumped into him from behind. Jon was dimly aware of some word, probably a curse, flung at him.

There were so many people around him. Jon felt separated like through a pane of glass, his eyes flitting to each one in turn. None of their secrets jumped out to him, but one did not have to be a monster to compel secrets, people kept their secrets comparatively out in the open, in their homes, leaping from their tongues if they were placed under the slightest hint of duress –

Feeling rather like he swallowed his tongue, Jon ducked into the nearby alley. He leaned against it, tilting his head back until he was staring up at the sky. It smelled awful, but somehow cleared his brain. Sometimes he felt like a crowd of people had a smell.

It was not that Jon felt compelled towards violence. It was a compulsion towards Knowing with whatever methods he had at his disposal – since the Eye had stripped him of his abilities, the only abilities he had left were ones that every human had. Harassment, stalking, aggression. Jon always felt sick with shame when he had to argue himself out of it.

He reached for his phone again, his finger hovering over the call button on Martin’s contact. Martin was good at talking him out of such things. Hearing Martin’s voice – the knowledge that Martin was there, waiting for him, expecting him home, believing that he was a good person – always helped.

Eventually, the phone went back in his pocket, and Jon just took a deep, cleansing breath. Another. And another. People passed by the alleyway, hordes of them, and Jon didn’t look in their direction. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the sky. _Yes, they have secrets, and you’re not going to have them, and it’s fine,_ except it didn’t feel fine in the slightest.

Frankly, it felt unfair that each trip outside had to be some sort of battle. Not even a fair one, but rather one where some old trauma could come leaping at him from the shadows through no fault of anyone and ruin everyone’s day. He was glad he hadn’t called Martin, though. He had gotten over it on his own, and he hadn’t worried Martin for it.

The title of ‘good day’ hadn’t been stripped yet.

Readjusting his bag, Jon rejoined the hordes out on the alleyway. Not to be dejected, he kept on his path towards the bakery.

_Rule Six:_ _Take d_ _eep breaths,_ _think_ _happy thoughts, and_ _have_ _the knowledge that Martin is expecting you home._

Another bell tinkled softly overhead, announcing his arrival towards the bakery. Unlike the bookshop, there was a decent line of people here and Jon pushed himself to the back of the line. He caught two pairs of eyes glancing in his direction and then looking away, which was rather good all things considered.

Smelled nice, too. It was little mercies sometimes, like the scent of vanilla in the air.

He could think of the others, sometimes, without starting to spiral. Always their happy memories, never their ends. If there was one thing he wished he could change about his relationship with Martin, it was his unwillingness to discuss the ones that had died in any capacity. Sometimes he thought about the fluffy pen that Sasha would do her paperwork with. Or he would think about Tim linking all the paperclips together and hiding them in Martin’s desk. Basira playing Tetris on her phone or Daisy pushing an entire half-sandwich into her mouth upon Melanie’s suggestion that she couldn’t.

Nice memories. Good ones. These people had been in his life, for better or for worse. And … Jon missed them.

He would try it, later. Martin would do his thing where he froze somewhat and look at Jon as if he were wondering whether this was a bizarre form of self-hatred and answer in stilted, vague remarks. Perhaps if Jon pushed a little, Martin would understand.

_Rule Seven: Try new things. It isn’t bad. Backpedaling isn’t only for frightened animals if it turns out poorly._

The cashier wasn’t exactly keen on Jon keeping his earbuds in while he gave his order for two slices of lemon drizzle cake, but hadn’t called him on it. Some of them did, and Jon would struggle through his order with the restless murmur of people behind him, and both Jon and cashier would be worse off for it.

After his order was placed, he stood to the side and finished his coffee. The last dregs of it were unbearably sweet, causing Jon to wrinkle his nose while he pitched it. With his other hand, he fished for his phone in his pocket again.

_Brainboy: You know, I once cried over an otter._

_Martin Blackwood: we’ve all been there_

_Brainboy: It was at the London Zoo. There were people staring._

_Martin Blackwood: aw jon_

_Brainboy: Mhm. Georgie had just broken up with me, and I’d come to London for a weekend trip just to get away from it all. Simultaneously, one of the otters had died at the zoo from a broken heart after his mate had died a few months previous._

_Martin Blackwood: jon that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard_

_Brainboy: So what I’m saying is, I do share a certain amount of kinship with otters. I think we understand each other on a metaphysical level._

_Martin Blackwood: pffftftftftft 😚_

_Rule Eight: Make Martin laugh._

Rule number eight was a prime example of not knowing whether it made him better or simply made him _feel_ better, but both were generally desirable outcomes. A smug smile painted his face when he dropped his phone back in his pocket and his order was called up. Jon took the pieces of cake and held it carefully in his grasp before heading out of the door and making his way home.

They had cautiously – oh so cautiously – started to branch out of their home. Jon didn’t think that they’d left their flat for anything other than groceries and medicine for a while, but now, it had slowly started to sink in that they were going to be here for a while.

Perhaps not in London, even if the idea of moving outside of it was overwhelming at the moment. Still, about once a week or so, Martin would pull up a list of things to do over the weekend, whether alone or as part of a pair. Attending a poetry reading (though not presenting) had been a bit of a dud, according to Martin. But he’d gone to Shakespeare in the Park with Jon and that had been great fun.

They were on first-name terms with their neighbors, and Jon genuinely asked and cared about their life and how they were doing. And their little dog. Melanie and Georgie were still part of their lives, albeit a small portion due to their proximity to Everything That Had Happened.

The idea that they would have friends someday – people to _go out_ with – perhaps even work colleagues, again – was deeply strange.

But not … bad. No. Not at all bad.

Jon turned onto their street, their flat, their home. It’d been a successful outing. He’d thought about asking Martin to come along, of course, but he’d been good about granting Martin his space recently. After being trapped with one another for eternity during the end of the world – well, Martin wasn’t the only one that like to be alone every now and then.

He turned the key in the lock and stepped into the warm flat. _Oh,_ Martin was making lunch already. Oh, that was lovely. His stomach started to growl. Jon dropped his bag on the couch and placed the cake on the table.

Their flat was small – it was London, after all, and despite the money they’d run into they hadn’t chosen anything ostentatious. Jon preferred to think of it as cozy, and it was enough for the both of them. Especially that first month, when they’d been nearly obsessed with making sure the flat was safe and free of horrors.

Jon walked around the corner to the kitchen, and saw Martin hurriedly covering a pan of stir fry. It sizzled appreciatively; the kitchen must’ve been a good ten degrees warmer than the rest of the flat.

God, but did he love Martin Blackwood. Martin didn’t cook often – Jon liked the rigor of it, the methodical nature, the thing to focus on – and neither of them were “good” at it. It was a welcome surprise to find that Martin had both cooked and it smelled _lovely._

“Hi,” Jon greeted, pulling the earbuds out of his ears and setting them on the counter. Martin turned around and _looked_ at him.

For all that they struggled, Martin looked happy. His sleep might’ve been riddled by nightmares, but he still slept. His face might’ve looked gaunt and haunted, but still smiled. And Jon could never be more grateful for him. “Hi,” Martin said back, pulling Jon forward into a hug. “How was your walk?”

“Oh, you know.” Martin’s arms were loose around his lower back. One pair of eyes on him, it seemed, but Martin was more the staring sort than the flitting away sort. “The amount of people being out is unfortunate.”

“Who would’ve thought in a major city that there’d be _people_ out. Someone ought to have a word.” He leaned down and kissed Jon, who folded his arms around Martin’s neck in return. Jon chose to have the kiss linger, the tips of his fingers brushing through the hair on the nape of Martin’s skull.

For everything else that he had to worry about, his fears of suddenly falling out of love with Martin when faced with mundane domesticity had been the most unfounded. He felt like he could vibrate from the affection of it all. It was only when he heard the pan’s complaint behind him that Martin hurriedly withdrew and tried to prevent the contents from boiling over. “Oh, shit – no no no, _please_ don’t burn,” he whisper-begged the food, scraping the bottom with a spatula. It seemed that the food had been unscathed.

More or less. _Edible._

Spying Martin’s hand free, Jon reached forward and wrapped his fingers around it. “Looks lovely, Martin, thank you. We ought to go for a walk after all this, you know? Could get some air. Unless you had any other burning plans for the day.”

_Rule Nine: Go out. See the world. You saved it, after all, you ought to at least look at it every once in a while._

Jon didn’t think of himself as anything sort of spectacular. Given that he’d also ruined the world, he figured he was still rather less than even. But that was more-or-less everyone else too, wasn’t it? Capricious, selfish, temperamental, juvenile lot that people could be sometimes. Everyone seemed a bit less than even some days.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that, love.” The pan temporarily soothed, Martin turned back towards Jon and put his arms around him again. This hug was more of a smother. While Martin didn’t utterly tower over him, he had a delightful way of encompassing people. With both of Martin’s arms around his shoulders and Martin’s cheek resting against the top of his head, he felt like he may very well get absorbed into Martin’s front like some form of Eldritch abomination.

What a pleasant idea.

“You good?” Martin asked softly, barely whispered against the top of his hair. This was fundamentally a different question than asking how his walk was. This was secretive. This was intimate. This was _‘I don’t want to avoid your suffering because it’s easier not to talk about it.’_ This was, at its core, ‘ _I want to help you.’_

Jon raised one hand to let his fingers trail across Martin’s forearm, feeling the hairs there tickle against his fingers. “Yes. Yes, I’m good, Martin.” And he was. The moment he’d had in the alley seemed far behind him, now, and faced with the prospect of lunch and a walk with his boyfriend after … well. It was A Genuinely Good Day. Jon awkwardly leaned his head back so that he could press a kiss to the underside of Martin’s jaw. Prickly, that. “You?”

“Well, a very handsome man just delivered me cake. I’m on top of the world.”

“Right, you,” Jon scoffed, rolling his eyes. He turned around in Martin’s arm so that he could watch the stir fry on the stove. Martin’s weight pressed against his back, and he smelled pleasantly of vanilla and soap.

It was better than anything he had ever dreamed, of course, but that meant little. Jon hadn’t foreseen a possibility where he would make it this far. To say that it was better than anything he deserved would have Martin fretting about Jon’s self-worth. To say that it was perfect was simply not factual, because there was a long way to go yet.

But it nevertheless felt necessary. Natural. Like he was on the right track, and Jon was grateful for it.

Martin dipped his head down so he could press a few soft kisses against Jon’s shoulder, over and over, occasionally dipping to the exposed skin by his neck. Jon tilted his head to the side appreciatively to accept the affection, love blooming in his chest.

_Rule Ten: Find someone who makes you believe it will all work out._

**Author's Note:**

> Using a fluffy post-S5 fic to channel good vibes into S5, y'all. I did want to imagine an optimistic view of post-S5 life (where both of the boys live) that also wasn't too optimistic, in that they recovered immediately and all is fine now. Thanks all for reading, and happy public MAG day tomorrow!


End file.
